But you look fine…

I am in a helluva state right now. I’m unemployed. If I wanted to maintain a job right now I couldn’t (too many medical appts for my husband & I, too many days where my pain or emotions and sometimes both are too out of control to function). I’m having mental breakdowns falling to pieces in the kitchen, the shower, the hot tub, the car. I can’t make basic decisions about things like what to eat or how to dress. I have a long list of triggers that are being tripped multiple times every single day.

It’s like living in a war zone inside your own body & mind. And everybody I try to impart this to anyone they just keeps saying “but you look fine…”

I am not fucking fine. I need help goddamnit. I’ve been begging & pleading for that much needed help for two fucking years solid. Yes, I have & employ all the necessary cpping skills. Yes, I am Polly Positivity 98% of the time. Yes, I am doing my best. I am seeking help. I am going to the doctors & the therapists. I am taking my meds. I am getting the tests. I am lighting the incense & saying the prayer. I am meditating. I am trying to eat healthy & exercise more. Clearly that’s not enough.

So tell me, what exactly do I need to look like to get fucking help? Do I need to shave my head? It worked for Brittany. Do I need to tweet my every cry for attention & incoherent thought ala Amanda Bynes? Do I need to shoplift like Lindsay & Winona? How about a sex tape? Everybody loves a good sex tape. Maybe I could get addicted to something…

What is it about mental illness & so-called invisible illnesses like fibromyalgia that give society permission to blatantly ignore a cry for help? If I was missing a leg you’d help me. If I was 98lbs, had alopecia, & a cancer diagnosis you’d help me. If I was even slightly disfigured on the outside I’d be able to get sone relief. It apparently doesn’t matter what’s going on inside… how much I’m falling apart, how much pain I’m in… I look fine.

I look just fucking fine.


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